


A Study in High School Musical

by wanderingrebel



Category: High School Musical (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, HSM crossover, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, hsm au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingrebel/pseuds/wanderingrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WHAT TEAM?<br/>High School Musical AU. Sherlock as Gabriella and John as Troy. *multiple-chapters*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for this monstrosity.

A feathery blanket of snow crusted the foliage, glistening with the flicker of the haphazardly lit resort – the sprawling building decorated lavishly within an inch of its life, thrumming with festive cheer.

John Watson was panting, meandering across the field, trying to kick the ball at the goal. His father beamed as John succeeded, patting his back energetically, “What team?” he shouted. John grinned, “Wildcats!”  
Their grins faded as Mrs. Kate Watson sauntered in, crunching gravelly snow beneath her shoes, scowling. “Oh, for God’s sake, get ready for the party, both of you!”  
“Mum,” John mumbled a protest -   
“No! I will not tolerate another word about rugby. You’ll get properly dressed and go to the kid’s party in the Freestyle Club.” She said, giving him a meaningful look.   
“Kid’s party?!” John glanced at his father for intercession, aghast.   
“Young adults,” his mother corrected, “Now, please, get ready.”

*

The library of the lodge was devoid of the ridiculous festoons and unsurprisingly quiet. Beside the crepitating fireplace, Sherlock Holmes sat, cradling a book about poisons and their antidotes in his lap, and reading with utmost concentration.  
“Go away, Mycroft,” he said, belligerently, as Mycroft approached the library, shattering the quiescence.   
Mycroft was, as customary for him, dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit, leaning on his umbrella. “Mummy will not regard a decline, brother dear,” he glided over to the armchair and snatched Sherlock’s book in a fluid motion. “Mummy has laid out your tuxedo, get dressed.”  
Staring lividly at Mycroft, Sherlock launched out of the dimpled velvet, picked up his book from where Mycroft had perched it and strode out.

*

The party, frankly, was like a crime scene. Lights were ricocheting across the embellished walls, casting haphazard shadows on the floor, littered with balloons, streamers and empty Styrofoam cups.

Sherlock sighed loudly, weighing his options to either ignore the stupidity in the room or the cacophony of the two teenagers (horrifically pissed) singing a maudlin melody on the stage. He glared a cursory peek at everyone, deducing them within seconds, and settled down in the corner to continue reading where he’d been forced to leave off.

“Who's gonna rock the house next?” boomed a voice as spotlights criss-crossed around the crowded room.  
Sherlock squinted as one beam of light settled on him, horrified. “I do not sing,” he began, aggressively, as he was pushed on the stage.   
The other beam landed on John Watson, who had walked into the room and poured himself a glass of punch, content to not join in the raucous celebration but stand along the dance-floor and think about the upcoming rugby championship and how he, as the captain of his team, ensure their victory this year.   
He swallowed nervously as he was ushered on stage, his protests unheeded.

Sherlock and John stood side-by-side, stiffly, not looking at each other, resigned to this humiliation.

John cleared his throat as soft music began to play, the lyrics floated on the screen, giving him the cue to begin:

 

“Living a life they want,   
they don’t understand,  
that my world is a lie,  
maybe I want to be different.”

 

Sherlock inhaled and gripped his mic tightly. In perfect harmony, he joined -   


“I never believe in,  
what cannot be quantified,  
I never open my heart, oh,  
it’s possible I don’t even have one.”

 

John and Sherlock glanced shyly at each other as they hummed in harmony, their bodies swaying rhythmically with the music.   
John felt a jolt of warmth surge through his flesh, sending sparks down his spine and Sherlock felt all his blood rush to his head, dizzying him.

 

Together, they sang -   


“This could be the start  
Of something new.  
It feels so right  
To be here with you,  
And now looking in your eyes  
I feel in my heart  
The start of something new.”

The swell of the crescendo ebbed into lingering silence as they both mirror each other’s smiles.

John reached out, “John,” he chuckled.   
“Sherlock.”  
“That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.” John gasped, giggling.  
“You seemed quite adept at it, John. You should be bursting into solos more often,” Sherlock teased.  
The echo of the new years’ countdown fused with the two boys’ laughter.

“Um, I should probably go wish my mum and dad,” John craned his neck to spot them. “But, I’ll call you, um,” John shuffled for his phone, holding it out for Sherlock to feed his number in. “Just so you know, singing with you was the most fun I've had on this vacation.”

 

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock smirked, punching his number into John’s phone, hastily. “And your sister will be passed out in the end of the Club’s corridor.”

“Fu-, how could you, oh, Christ, I’m going to get her.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll text you,” John waved at him as he dashed towards the Club.

  


 

 

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not updating. My laptop broke down. Anyway, *hands you the new chapter*, have fun. :-)

As soon as John and Lestrade stepped out of the bus, the whole school chanted in practiced unison – “Wildcats sing along, they really got it going on,” joined by every clique.   
The upcoming game was the talk of the school, buzzing in every corridor and classroom; the excitement could barely be contained within the building.   
Wiggling his way out of the intoning mass, John and Lestrade bounced across to their teammates, absent-mindedly high-fiving people.   
“It’s a happy Wildcat new year!” Mike grinned, “Who’s ready for the championship in two weeks?”  
“WILDCATS!” They all shouted.   
Mike rolled his eyes, mapping Irene’s perfectly blow dried blonde head as she paraded past them, “The ice princess has returned from North Pole.”   
There was a spurt of laughter, they all high-fived each other.   
Irene glared at Mike and Lestrade with distaste as she walked past. “Who freed the zoo animals?”   
“Hi, John,” she said, coyly.   
“Uh, hey.”  
“Well, I’ll see you around, John.” She said, twirling her hair and glancing up at John through her eyelashes.   
“Ooh, ooh!” The boys’ hooted, thumping a perplexed John on the back. “Looks like John is melting the ice princess!”  
With that they dissolved into raucous guffaws and ambled boldly to the class.

*

“Mycroft, this is atrocious. I specifically asked you to not have me enrolled in a school deeming with barbaric low-achievers.” Sherlock huffed, pacing down the corridor of the school. He looked at the Principal, swiftly. “Fanatic about rugby, smoker, and wife’s cheating with the neighbor,” he muttered, inaudibly. “Fantastic.” He glowered.   
“Perhaps you would be agreeable to Eton again, then.” He exhaled. It wasn’t a question. They both knew Sherlock would never return to Eton. Not after the Moriarty debacle and his dabbles with cocaine.   
Resigned, Sherlock passed Mycroft a fierce frown and sauntered towards his class.

*

Sherlock’s grimace deepened as he sat down on his desk. Why were people so intent to engage in inane chattering? He bent down to retrieve his phone from his bag, keen to send Mycroft a particularly nasty text.

At the far corner of the room, John swept his eyes across the room. He caught sight of a tumble of inky black curls; before he could walk over to confirm the gnawing trepidation and hope for it to be Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, their HRT gusted in.   
The flurry of gossip and movement subsided and everyone sank into their seats.   
“I trust you all had splendid holidays, check the sign-up sheets in the lobby for new activities,” she announced, gesticulating extravagantly with her heavily accessorized hands.   
John winched himself a little, desperate to discover who the mess of black curls belonged to.   
“Mr. Watson, ”Mrs. Hudson narrowed her bespectacled eyes. Turning pink, John fidgeted back into his chair.   
“Especially our winter musicale, we will have singles auditions, ”Mrs. Hudson continued, meandering along the aisle.   
Lestrade tapped John’s back, “You alright, mate?”   
“Yeah.”  
“...There is also a final sign-up for next week's scholastic decathlon competition...”   
Giving in to the urge, John called Sherlock’s number.   
The faint hum of Wagner cut through Mrs. Hudson’ exaggerated monologue.   
“Ah, the mobile-phone menace,” she remarked, her eyes glimmering with irritation. “We have zero-tolerance for mobile-phones in the classroom.” She strutted with a tin towards Irene and Anderson. “See you in detention,” she said. “Aha!”   
Sherlock was staring at John’s picture on his mobile, flummoxed. He shifted sideways to see John Watson grinning apologetically at him.   
Oh, the odds of meeting John Watson again. Sherlock swallowed an incredulous grin and decided to ignore the warmth flooding through his body. “Welcome to East High, Mr. Holmes,”Mrs. Hudson snatched his mobile from him and swished around to hold the tin beneath John’s nose. “As you were involved, too, Mr. Watson, I shall see you in detention after school.”   
“But Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade interjected, hastily, “John can’t miss practice. The Finals are in two weeks and it isn’t possible for John-“  
“Fifteen minutes for you too, Mr. Lestrade, count them.” She snapped. In another row, the head of Chemistry Club, Molly Hooper sniggered with her entourage, “I doubt he can count to fifteen.”   
“And fifteen for you, Ms. Hooper!”Mrs. Hudson said, angrily. Dangerously, she asked, “Any questions?”  
Mike said, calmly, “How were your holidays, Mrs. Hudson?”  
Everyone turned to look disbelievingly at Mike just as the bell rang. *John leant against the door, masquerading his heart’s new penchant to hammer against his ribcage and make his stomach perform strange somersaults behind a casual wave to everybody.   
“I’ll catch you in detention, Greg,” he said.   
“She’s one seriously barmy lady,” Lestrade grinned.   
John nodded, willing Lestrade to leave quickly.   
“See you later.”  “John.”  
“Sherlock.” They both lapsed into shy giggles.   
“I looked for you the next day,” John panted.   
“Oh,” Sherlock smiled dubiously. “We had to leave.”  
John couldn’t pinpoint why he felt the way he did. It was almost as if everything seemed more vivid, somehow; like someone knew him for something other than rugby. He wasn’t John Watson, Captain of Wildcats whilst he walked with Sherlock, he was just...John.“Fancy seeing you here.” John said, rubbing his hands over his face. “I forgot to ask you, how did you know about my sister?”   
“I deduced it, John.” Sherlock quirked his eyebrow.   
“Come again?”  
“Oh, John,” Sherlock said.   
John swore, internally. Damn, Sherlock’s voice was even deeper than he remembered.   
“I observe things about people.”  
“You observed that I had a sister?” John looked skeptical.   
“Indeed. Just like I observed that your family needs you to get a scholarship in rugby so that you can go to college. Your family’s finances are depleting, can’t afford to send you to college if you fail. You feel burdened but resigned to your fate. You’re optimistic to a fault, bound to your teammates by a sense of loyalty. Can’t bear to let them down. Need I continue?” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. This was when most people began to cry, punched him, spewed a few choice diatribes and walked away. ‘Freaky Genius’, he’d always been taunted by the name.   
After a moment of utter silence, Sherlock opened his eyes wonderingly. John was staring at him with unadulterated bewilderment.   
“That,” John said in a breathy voice, “Was bloody brilliant.”  
Sherlock was flabbergasted. Tentatively, he asked, “You really think so?”   
“Of course. It was quite extraordinary.”  
Smiling helplessly, Sherlock said, “That’s not what people usually say.”   
“What do they normally say?”  
“Piss off.”  
John opened his mouth to say something but trailed off into laughter and after a second, Sherlock joined him.


	3. Chapter 3

John and Sherlock ambled down the hall.   
“So, uh, anyway, welcome to East High.” John whispered.   
“Do you honestly believe that your friends wouldn’t be able to handle you having sung at a party before?” Sherlock’s lips twitched.   
“How do you, um, deduced,” John inhaled noisily. “My mates don’t really see me as anything other than a rugby player.” He admitted.   
“They’re idiots.” Sherlock said, simply.  
Clearing his throat, John waved his hands towards the bulletin boards. “Now that you’ve met Mrs. Hudson, I bet you can’t wait to sign up for-“.   
“Really, John, have you met me? Most people aren’t so welcoming after I prattle out their life story. Like it’s my fault their wife’s cheating on them.”  
“They’re idiots.” John echoed.  
Sherlock smiled sheepishly and John felt his heart flutter at the smile. Before he could say anything, Irene swaggered in front of them, scrawling her name in huge capitals under the Winter Musical column. “Oh, John, how nice of you to show our new classmate around. Her voice’s syrupy intonation annoyed Sherlock and he peeked at John, speculating how he’d react. John’s lips twisted in an uncomfortable half-smile.   
Stepping closer to John, Irene batted her eyes. “I missed you, John. How were your holidays?”  
“Good, um, I –“.   
“When’s the big game, John?” She whispered.   
“Two weeks.” John tried to extract himself from Irene’s clutch on his wrist. Persistent, Irene said, “You’re so dedicated, John, just like me. Promise me you’ll come watch me in the musical?”  
John swallowed awkwardly.   
Jumping apart from John, she turned to face Sherlock. “Oh, did you want to sign up, too?” She asked, sweetly. “My brother and I have starred in all the school’s productions.”  
She stared intently at him and then with a swish of her hair, said, “Toodles!”

Sherlock smirked and John rolled his eyes.   
“See you in detention, Sherlock.”  
“John,” Sherlock gave a brief nod and went his way   


*

John was tying his laces, sitting at the edge of the rugby field. Deliberately nonchalant, he said, “Greg, you know about that, er, musical thing? You get extra credit for auditioning.”  
Lestrade was stretching beside him. From behind his arms across his face, he said, “Who cares?”  
“Isn’t it always good to have extra credit for college?”  
Greg snorted, “Do you think Lee Mears and Toby Flood auditioned for their school’s winter production?”  
“Maybe,” John muttered.   
“The music isn’t even rock or hip-hop; it’s _cultural_ , with costumes and make-up.” Greg added, meaningfully.   
“It’d be a good laugh, though. Irene’s sort of cute, too.” John tried, half-heartedly.   
“John, come on, mate. We’re going to win that championship. Irene’s about as cute as a savage lion, we both know that.”

“OI, WILDCATS, PAIR UP!” Coach Watson bellowed.

John and Lestrade hurried to the field. John’s mind was caught in a tempest. He couldn’t comprehend why he was as much as considering the musical when he had the championship to prepare for. It was just that singing with Sherlock had ignited something in him, a cinder that he didn’t think he had had in him, that hadn’t meant to be lit. But now it was spreading across his blood like wildfire. Holding the ball gingerly, John braced himself for a grueling game and hummed to himself as they began.

“Coach said to fake right  
And break left  
Watch out for the pick  
And keep an eye on defense  
Gotta run the give and go..;  
Get'cha, get'cha head in the game  
We gotta,  
Get our, get our, get our, get our head in the game.”

There were loud whoops as they finished. The team-mates high-fived each other and went to shower and change.   
John hung back, pressing his sweat-beaded temple.   
Closing his eyes, he sang –

“Why am I feeling so wrong?  
My head’s in the game but my heart is in the song.  
He makes it feel so right.”

Feeling silly, John stopped abruptly. He sighed and went to the shower-room.

The shower-room had a perpetually pungent smell to it, like stale sweat, steam and an array of deodorants. Confident roars of, “WILDCATS!” were ricocheting across the room.  
John had never felt so horrendously wrong. All his life, he’d known who he was. He was John Watson, the Rugby Player. Why had one chance meeting with an ethereal boy knocked him sideways till he was disoriented with confusion?   
Putting on his oatmeal-coloured jumper, he thought of Sherlock – captivating, brilliant and mad – Sherlock who knew John Watson’s life story before he knew his name (possibly), who beamed at John with his plush and rusty mouth, like he wasn’t used to smiling; who had sung with John in perfect harmony, like their duet was meant to be, like they’d practiced it a thousand times before; who’d met him after that otherworldly encounter in his very school. Fate? John mused.

*

Sherlock was poring over his chemistry book. “Idiots,” he groaned. He couldn’t believe how obtuse Mycroft was being; he needn’t even be at school. He already knew all this.   
Irene leaned over, “So, it seemed like you knew John Watson,” she said, conversationally.   
Sherlock shook his head, frowning at her.   
Not taking the hint, she prattled on, “He’s busy with rugby, you know, hardly any time to interact with...”  
“16 by pi,” Sherlock said, loudly.   
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, what?” The teacher turned to him.  
“The answer is 16 by pi, you’ve solved it wrong.”   
“Oh, I stand corrected.” The teacher said, warmly. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Holmes.”  
Sherlock’s eyes must have been the size of Australia. He’d been expecting to be thrown out. In fact, he’d even thought out his belligerent monologue of deductions about him. He ruffled his hair and tried to suppress a smile.

*

Irene eyeballed Sherlock as he left. “Anderson, there’s something strange going on with Sherlock Holmes. I saw him chatting with John Watson.” She said, snapping her fingers impatiently for Anderson to follow.  
Stealthily, they made their way to the computer lab, running a quick search regarding Sherlock.   
Anderson exhaled noisily as he perused the results. “He’s practically Einstein, albeit a snobby one. Why’d he want to meddle with our musical?”  
“I know just how to keep him away from it,” Irene’s eyes glinted with conspiracy.   
She printed out Sherlock’s accolades’ information and snuck them into Molly Hooper’s locker.   
Flashing Anderson a triumphant smile, she marched off.

*

“GOLD, GOLD, MORE GOLD,” Mrs. Hudson commanded.   


Sherlock was bespecked with paint as he ran his brush along the wooden prop, clumsily. He scanned the room for John, who was supposedly painting a tree with Lestrade who’d fallen asleep inside its hollow.   
Sherlock tried to catch John’s eye but he seemed jittery. Oh, practice, Sherlock concluded. He couldn’t miss practice, especially when his father was the coach.   
He’d flung his brush with frustration when Molly Hooper and her minions cornered him.  
“Wow, um, Sherlock, I’m, um, YES! Yes, we’d love for you to represent our school in the decathlon.” She tittered, nervously.   
At that moment, Sherlock was positive he was trapped in a school with raving mad people.   
“As much as I hate to say this,” he began, “but what?”  
Thrusting the printed pages at him, Molly said, “We meet every day after school – “.  
“No,” Sherlock said. “Where did you even get these from?”  
“Didn’t you put them in my locker?” Molly’s lower lip quivered.   
“I did not.” Sherlock said, shortly. “I’m not going to concede or change my mind, so, please, stop pestering me and go back to whatever vapid work you were doing.”  
Irene overheard her plan being sabotaged and jumped in. “Oh, delightful, I heard your team’s up against Eton this year. Jim Moriarty, their star player, yes?” She asked Molly, in a deliberately detached manner.   
“I’ll do it,” Sherlock nodded and stormed off to the other end of the room.

*

Half of the rugby team stood despondently in front of Coach Watson.

“Where are John and Sherlock?”   
“Detention.”  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he sighed.

*

Coach Watson burst into the theatre, glowering furiously at Mrs. Hudson, who was droning on about the horrors of mobile-phones in the temple of creativity.   
“Where’s my team, Mrs. Hudson?”   
Twirling to face him, Mrs. Hudson replied, “Crime and punishment, Watson.”   
“You two, out of the bloody tree,” he commanded John and Greg. They scrambled out of it and stood up straight. “To the gym, now!”   
Cutting through Mrs. Hudson’s appalled reply, he said, “Can we have a talk, please?”  


*

Mrs. Hudson and Coach Watson sat, arguing, in the Principal’s office.   
“We’re weeks away from the championship-“.  
“Corrupting the serene aura of our winter musical production-“.  
“The big game!-“  
“This school has more to it than rugby, young man,” Mrs. Hudson turned expectantly to the Principal.   
“No, I’m not interceding for either of you. You’ve had this disagreement for long enough, now.”  


*

  
As much as he might despise participating in organized activities, Sherlock bit his tongue as he left the school premises later that afternoon with a babbling Molly Hooper. Everything about Molly was ordinary – from her mousy hair, to her words tumbling out with a jumpy laugh. She was looking at him in a moony sort of way that both irritated Sherlock and made him think, with dread, if he watched John that way.   
“So, what do you know about John Watson?” Sherlock asked, feigning indifference.   
Molly shrugged. “I don’t really know him. We live in alternate universes.”  
“Mhmm?” Sherlock cajoled her to keep on.   
“He’s the sort of boy whom every cheerleader’s after. I’ve heard them say um, indulgent things about his arse so many times,” she giggled. “Anyway, this is my stop. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow?” She asked, hopefully.  
“Indeed,” Sherlock said.  
He had felt a twinge of ache when Molly had told him about John Watson. Everyone Sherlock had ever met had always given the appearance of being astonishing when they were as tedious as anyone could get. And John Watson, he was magnetic. With his hideous jumpers and carefully set hair, it was almost as if he wanted to blend in, wished for an anonymity he’d never had. And beneath the façade of dullness, John Watson was iridescent – with his fathomless blue eyes and tight-set mouth that laughed at the slightest of provocation, his determined jaw, how he’d admired Sherlock’s ability to piece together his life rather than hitting him in the face. The blurry contours of that night’s memory solidified as Sherlock thought about them singing together.   
As he climbed up to his room and plucked at the strings of his beloved violin, he imagined John’s voice in tandem with the melody he was coaxing out of the instrument.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a very disjointed chapter, sorry. I shall be updating tomorrow. xx

John was twirling spaghetti around his fork, idly. His stomach twisted painfully; what was it about Sherlock that had sent him into a disarray of conflicting impulses?   
Along the kitchen, his father was pacing, aflutter with fret. “I still don’t understand the whole detention debacle,” he said, resignedly.   
John sighed, dropping his fork on his plate with a sharp clang. “It was my fault, it won’t happen again.”  
“Don’t make it a habit, John, that’s all I’m saying.”  
They lapsed into silence again, a clamourous hush that rang in John’s ears.   
“Dad,” he said, cautiously, “have you ever wanted to try something that you were afraid your friends would make fun of?”  
His father halted, eyeing him dubiously. “Like going left? You’re doing fine, John.”  
“Well, no. Like doing something entirely different that turns out to be a disaster and then having your friends laugh at you.”  
Coach Watson huffed impatiently. “John, honestly, were you listening to me today about teamwork?” Hands on his hips, he rolled his eyes at John. “You’re their leader, you’ve got to keep the team together.”  
John nodded.  
“A scholarship’s worth a lot, John.”  
John rasped a bitter laugh.   
*  
Sunlight sifted into the classroom, catching in Sherlock’s curls and illuminating them. Sherlock’s grace as he bent over his book, muttering absentmindedly to himself, made John think of winding, moonlit alleys, and he couldn’t help but stare.   
Sherlock glanced at John, sunbeams dancing on his inky hair and flickering in his opalescent eyes and smiled – a rusty smile that made John’s breath hitch and his heart thrum delightfully.   
He had only just begun re-evaluating his sexuality when Ms. Hudson’s lilting intonation shook him out of his reverie.   
“I expect we all learned our homeroom manners yesterday, people, correct?  
If not, we have some dressing rooms that need painting. Now, a few announcements: this morning during free period will be your chance for the musicale auditions, both single and pairs, I will be in the theater until noon for those of you bold enough to extend the wingspan of your creative spirit…”  
Irene flashed a smug smile to Anderson, like they were sharing a perverse private joke.   
John peeked at Sherlock, who was scribbling furiously into his notebook and sat uncomfortably for the rest of the period.   
*  
Greg and Mike crowded John as he walked out. “Mate,” Greg said, “we’re squeezing in extra practice. What should we run?”  
John made a hurried and uncertain decision to watch the auditions. “Um, I can’t join you right now…I have to catch up on homework,” he mumbled foolishly.   
Lestrade gaped at him. “Tell me you’re taking the piss.”  
“I, uh, no, Greg, I’ll see you later, alright?” John picked up his pace, trying to make a hasty exit.   
Greg gave him a suspicious look before he nodded a curt reply. 

John maneuvered his way through the mayhem, cognizant of Greg following him, not as inconspicuously as he thought he was, but trailing him rather ably anyway.   
Desperate to not be seen, John ducked behind desks and meandered along corridors until Greg lost track of him.   
Discovering an abandoned cleaning trolley, John hid behind it and ambled, as quickly as he could without seeming like an over-enthusiastic janitor, to the auditorium.   
*  
The auditorium was mostly desolate, with twittering hopefuls (sparsely) occupying the seats and listening to Ms. Hudson’s cinematic speech in awe. Ms. Hudson stood on the stage, her tremulous voice reverberating across the hall as she harped about the sacred nature of theatre.  
*  
Sherlock’s mind was thunderous. For the first time in his life, he was honestly worried if his intelligence was waning. His body rebelled against his mind; his legs were guiding him, mutinously to the auditorium only because Sherlock’s hammering heart knew John was going to be there. Such treacherous creatures hearts were.   
Music held power over Sherlock, it helped him unweave his meshed brain, but that was only when he was playing his cherished Stradivarius. Singing with John had not been about the melody itself but about the electricity that had surged between them. It had jolted something in Sherlock that had been dormant thus far. Sherlock had dissected (dead) insects and animals, he’d even managed to get hold of some human intestines to experiment upon, once, until Mycroft had confiscated them – he ran these experiments, gleefully, without as much as a slight twinge of repulsion – but his mind’s sudden lapse into poetic metaphors in John’s proximity was utterly grotesque and Sherlock’s lack of control was making his head spin.   
*

John had the ever-mounting urge to pierce his own eardrums. The auditions were cataclysmic. John was quite sure mutes would be able to sing better. He shook his head vehemently as if to get the shards of every cacophonic song out of his ears. “Ugh,” he groaned.   
“Isn’t the mop obstructing your view?”   
John jumped as Sherlock’s cool rumble reached him.   
Turning crimson, John grinned bleakly. “Are you here to audition?”  
Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes, “No, but you want to.”  
“No point in denying that, you can see through lies.” John said. “Bastard,” he chuckled.   
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and gestured towards the stage – Irene and Anderson, in all their exaggerated adornments, stepped on the stage, handing the pianist, Sally their C.D and burst into an upbeat, thespian number, complete with jazz squares and hair-flipping.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible human being. Also, I'm so sorry for the delay.

The world was pirouetting beneath him, dissolving into the rhythm of the melody and Sherlock was melting into the music he was sharing with John. John, who hummed – gently yet unwaveringly, John whose gaze was vertiginous.   
They were nimble-footed as they traipsed through the lyric, a shadowy intimacy encompassing them as they continued.

  
 ** _“_** ** _I've never had someone that knows me like you do_** **** __  
the way you do  
I've never had someone as good for me as you  
no one like you so lonely before I finally found  
what I've been looking for…”

  
The surge of gravity between them was undeniable – from Sherlock’s thudding pulse to John’s hitched breath, they both slot like a jigsaw waiting to be pieced together.   
Sherlock allowed himself to linger at the last note before it faded away to silence – a noisy silence brimming with gulped-down admissions.   
John coughed, the tips of his ears pinkening, “Erm,” he began -   
  
“Watson and Holmes, you have a callback. Sally, give them the duet from the second act.” Mrs. Hudson’s disembodied voice commanded as she swished out the door.   
  
Sherlock shook his head quite vehemently. “Sally, ah, no, we were just…” he trailed off, glancing at John, who had turned a furious shade of red (to match the Wildcats’ uniform, undoubtedly). “John, are you alright?”

Sally had finally regained her composure, it seemed as she interjected, “Do you want to sit down, you look shattered?”

John swallowed and muttered something that sounded quite like “I’m fucked” under his breath and said, “So, Sally, when do begin practicing with you?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to prattle on about something, maybe to argue or question John’s deranged state of mind, but decided against it and simply stared, wide-eyed at him.   
John had never been so grateful for silence – to not have been second guessed or queried, to have been _allowed_ to act on the rush of exhilaration, to have the looming presence of somebody who understood him.   
Sally surveyed John and giggled nervously. “Whenever you want to rehearse, er, I’m mostly here during the free period and after school, sometimes during biology, too,” she lapsed into embarrassed laughter, “I, well, you can come to my house to rehearse or come over for breakfast,” she paused for breath, “perhaps after rugby, John?”

Sherlock groaned, “Oh, for God’s sake, Sally. What are you so frightened of? You’ve lived in this town since you were a child, you practically grew up with these people, always watching from the sidelines. You’ve tried being more confident, haven’t you? Even read those godforsaken ‘Dummies’ guides; clearly, nobody in your family has acumen enough to take you to a psychiatrist and get your atelophobia and social anxiety diagnosed.”

Flushing, Sally took a stilted step away from the piano, flashed John and Sherlock a watery smile and whispered, “Just let me know the details of your rehearsals, okay?” before running outside.

“What the bloody hell was that about, Sherlock?” John demanded.  
“Oh, come off it, John, she would never be able to face Irene and Anderson if she doesn’t buckle up. I’m right about the anxiety, though.”  
“You’re irredeemable.” John sighed.   
“You’re actually doing..this?” Sherlock quirked his eyebrows.  
John chuckled, “I’m so buggered.”  
Sherlock gave him a twisted, half-smile that made John’s already acrobatic heart leap further. There was something gravely wrong with him.   
Settling his hands deep into his pockets, Sherlock nodded a goodbye and left John standing alone in the dark.   
John laughed, cursed himself and crumbled into an exhausted heap on the floor. 

*

Sherlock banged his head rather wildly on the wall. In the space of a week, he had somehow derailed from the normality of his idiosyncratic normality to have been transmuted into an unhinged thespian. He shuddered to think his perfunctory cruelty was disbanding into something unrecognizable. As if the dissolution of his acerbity wasn’t enough, Sherlock had been grappling with something tremendously more horrifying: the incessant pitter-patter of John Watson – the kindness in his eyes, the determination to his gaze, the tinkle of his laughter, the scruffiness to his hair when he ran- flooding his brain – petulantly colouring every part of his quicksilver mind their hue.   
He groaned loudly and flopped down on his bed.

 

John yawned. He had barely slept at all, and it seemed as if no amount of sleep or caffeine would abate the storm brewing inside his gut. A storm waiting to escalate. He leaned against the refrigerator before deciding he couldn’t stomach breakfast and leaving for school.

*

Irene’s shriek ricocheted across the corridor - “CALLBACK FOR THE ROLES OF ARNOLD AND MINNIE, NEXT THURSDAY, 3:30 PM.”  
“Irene Adler and P. Anderson, and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” Anderson finished, befuddled.   
Irene’s lip quivered, “Is this a joke? They didn’t even audition.”  
Anderson simply stared at her before swiveling around and whispering, “Maybe we’re being Punk’d!”   
“What do you mean, Anderson?”  
“Maybe we’re being filmed,” he said mutedly, “I want to meet Ashton.”  
“Oh, piss of!” Irene shoved him out of her way. “How dare she sign up? After I’d picked out colours for my dressing room –“   
*

A hush had fallen over the cafeteria, a fragile stillness teetering at the precipice of lapsing into mayhem.   
“I’ve got a confession,” Mike began, tentatively. “My own secret obsession and it’s making me lost control,” everybody huddled around him, “I bake.”  
“What?”   
“I love to bake! Strudels, tarts, pies..”  


And so anarchy descended.

**_“_ ** **_No, no, no, no!_ **

****_No, no, no  
Stick to the stuff you know  
If you wanna be cool_

**_follow one simple rule_ **

**_Don't mess with the flow_ **

**_no, no  
Stick to the status quo!”_ **

****

**_*_ **

****

Sherlock could feel the eyes of the school’s entire populace singing his skin. It would have been unnerving if he’d been anybody but who he was. He gathered his book-set, shoved it into his bag and walked straight into Irene, inadvertently dousing her in the food she held. For Irene, it was the last straw. That bloody posh git was ruining her life! “Oh, my God!” She cried. “OH, MY GOD, MRS. HUDSON, SHERLOCK HOLMES DUMPED FOOD ON ME. THEY’RE SCHEMING AGAINST ME, ARGH!”   
Mrs. Hudson eyed Sherlock with distaste. “See you in detention, Mr. Holmes.”

 


End file.
